


Cup of Tea

by bendingsignpost



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Emotional Constipation, Explicit Sexual Content, Grief/Mourning, M/M, One Night Stands, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Walk Into A Bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:17:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4454459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas shrugs and heads toward the bar. Martin follows in his wake, shoes squeaking and squelching against the shiny, if sticky, floor. His jacket clings to him. His drenched trousers drag at his belt, slowly falling down despite his furtive pulls upwards. </p>
<p>Beside him, Douglas does a remarkable impression of having walked out of an action film. Not fair. Not fair at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cup of Tea

**Author's Note:**

> I was going through my fic folder and, uh, looks like this thing has been finished for well over a year now. Surprise!

Martin takes one look around the pub and comes to one inevitable conclusion: "This is hopeless."

 

"Nonsense," Douglas scoffs. "We just got here."

 

"Yes, right, I'll be more precise. This is hopeless _for me_."

 

"If you'd packed a change of clothes--"

 

"We weren't meant to land at Heathrow!" Heads turn and Martin shrinks in both size and volume. He coughs. "I ought to be home by now."

 

"Shame the weather disagreed with you. One word of advice, Martin? If you don't want to end up bunking with Arthur in the Hostel of Doom, you might want to lose the hat."

 

"If I can't pull as a captain, I certainly can't pull as a sodden ginger rat."

 

"Suit yourself." Douglas shrugs and heads toward the bar. Martin follows in his wake, shoes squeaking and squelching against the shiny, if sticky, floor. His jacket clings to him. His drenched trousers drag at his belt, slowly falling down despite his furtive pulls upwards.

 

Beside him, Douglas does a remarkable impression of having walked out of an action film. Not fair. Not fair at all.

 

"What do you have for designated drivers?" Douglas asks the bartender. "Right, that'll do. Martin, what are you having? First round is on me."

 

"The only round," Martin says.

 

"Yes, I did notice you buying your Underground ticket with spare change," Douglas replies. "It only took fifteen minutes. Come on, what're you having?"

 

"Nothing strong. Haven't had a bite since the cheese tray."

 

"Right then, Martin. Let's see you find someone to buy you dinner."

 

Drink in hand and cap on head, Martin gives it his all. He gives it his stammering and his erratic eye contact. He gives it his best aviation anecdotes and then he gives it his best retreat. An eon passes. Half an hour crawls by.

 

His stomach gnawing on itself, Martin eats his pride in lieu of food and tracks down Douglas. Douglas, who has managed to find a table and a woman who giggles like a girl whenever Douglas does that smooth rumbling thing with his voice. That explains the three marriages, and possibly two of the divorces as well.

 

"Martin, come sit!" Douglas waves him over. "Stephanie, this is Martin. We fly together."

 

"Pleasure," Stephanie says, reaching for a firm handshake.

 

"Hi." Martin sits, squishing his way in beside Douglas. From here, he can still see most of the bar. He removes his hat and sets it on the table. "Sorry, I must look a fright."

 

"Curls and rain, I know," Stephanie replies, indicating her natural hair. "Happens to the best of us."

 

"Yes, well," Martin says. At this point, he runs out of words. She is beautiful and approximately three times Martin's size, and that is far too much intimidating to occur in one person.

 

Fortunately, Douglas immediately swoops in to rescue the conversation and, in very short order, Martin might as well not exist. Martin keeps scanning the surrounding faces for a half-way welcoming look. If there is one, Martin misses it. He nurses his glass until his pint is a pint of air, and then Stephanie, bless, buys the next round. Though manners insist he stay, Martin's wallet insists he relocate before they finish off their drinks.

 

Standing by the bar, he drinks very slowly. He edges slightly closer toward a tall brunette, and the tall brunette edges slightly closer to a blond man. She establishes first contact before Martin can muster up a hello, and he backs off accordingly. Fair enough, really. That bloke might be older than Martin, but he looks fit. Martin isn't so much thin as he's malnourished.

 

Martin watches the dwindling crowd with dwindling hope. But it's all right, really. It's not like he expected anything would happen. Time to go elbow Arthur for a bit of mattress space.

 

He drains his pint and sets it down on the bar. A few feet over, the blond man leans forward, arm raised to signal the bartender, and his eyes catch on Martin.

 

The man stares.

 

Martin stares back, blinks, and checks over his shoulder. Nothing there.

 

Mouth slightly open, forehead wrinkled, the man keeps staring at him. His eyes flick upward a tiny distance before he meets Martin's gaze a second time. Martin touches the frizzy mess of his own hair. He can't look _that_ ridiculous, can he? Wait, where's his hat?

 

A quick look around proves it's nowhere on his person. He spins around, searching, and wobbles slightly more than he'd prefer. Oh, yes, right: Douglas' table.

 

He makes a beeline for it. In an enviably natural motion, Douglas holds Stephanie's hand on the table, his thumb brushing her knuckles. How do people do that? Too awkward at the mere sight, Martin can't so much as sit down with them. Then Stephanie extends a verbal invitation, and it would be too awkward to stand.

 

"Ah, Martin, why the retreat?" Douglas asks.

 

"Wasn't working so well," Martin admits in a rush.

 

"Really? Not your usual type, but that did look like interest."

 

As if Martin could be picky enough to _have_ a type. "Maybe from here, but up close, it definitely wasn't."

 

"Oh, I don't know," Stephanie says, looking over her shoulder. "Why else would he still be looking?"

 

"Sorry, what?"

 

"The blond in the black jacket," she says. "Bit short."

 

"What? No. Why would he--" Martin cranes in his seat. His eyes lock with those of the man from the bar. "Are you serious?"

 

"Care to make a go of it?" Douglas asks. He lowers his voice. "Worst case scenario, you could inconveniently nod off on his sofa."

 

"Stop it, that's not funny. Besides, he was just chatting up a woman, Douglas."

 

"Hm." Douglas takes a long sip. "Tall-ish woman? Brunette, light scarf, tan coat?"

 

"Uh, yes, actually. How did you know?"

 

"She's glaring daggers at you," Douglas says, and Stephanie giggles into her glass.

 

Martin looks and, sure enough, the woman is sorely peeved. "...Huh."

 

"If you'd rather not, we can find you someone else," Stephanie says.

 

"Ah, so you love a challenge," Douglas says. "A woman after my own heart."

 

Martin elbows him. "Shut up, Douglas."

 

"So what do you think?" Douglas asks. "Disappoint your gentleman caller or give him a chance first?"

 

"For goodness' sake." Martin stands, fixing his hat. "I don't have a gentleman caller. Look, I'll prove it."

 

"Have fun." Douglas lifts his glass in a small toast to the blond man. The man returns the gesture with a small grin. Martin's stomach flips over.

 

"If you change your mind and need me to cockblock for you, I will," Stephanie volunteers.

 

"Stop it, both of you!" Martin orders in a loud whisper. The only result is clear insubordination, but it at least makes him feel somewhat better.

 

Standing, his body is at once far too small and much too lanky. Like a poorly constructed folding chair, he could collapse at any sudden pressure. He approaches the bar with all the dignity he can muster. His hat earns him a few odd looks, but that's nothing new. It's the look the blond man gives him that's interesting: quick and weighing, and much more intent than men--strike that--than _anyone_ typically is when considering him.

 

"Captain," says the blond man. His voice is as solid as his shoulders, and he uses the word the way civilians don't. Martin listens for that sort of thing. It is, after all, one of his favourite words.

 

"How did you--oh, right. The hat."

 

The universal effect of Martin's awkward babbling holds true, and the interest in the man's eyes visibly dims. "The uniform helped too." He shrugs a little and drinks from his glass, his focus slipping to the side.

 

"Aha, yes." He realises he's fiddling with the damp cuffs and makes himself stop. It's hardly as if dozing off on this man's sofa is his first pick. No point in being disappointed. "So... which branch?"

 

"Sorry?"

 

"You, I mean," Martin clarifies. "I'm very obviously a pilot, but you are...?"

 

"RAMF," the man says. "Retired."

 

"But also a captain? It's just, you sounded like a captain."

 

The man stares at him in a curious way. "How do you mean?"

 

"Well, there's a sound to it," Martin explains. "When someone in the forces addresses someone by rank, there's, you know, a, a reference point to it. Because it's not just _their_ rank, _your_ rank also matters. So, so when you said 'Captain,' it didn't sound like Captain-with-a-salute-'Captain' or a 'I'm waiting for a salute' Captain. It sounded more like a 'hello, also Captain' Captain. Does that make any sense? It make more sense in my head."

 

"No, it--" Eyes wide, the man clears his throat. "It made sense."

 

"It did? Really?"

 

The man shifts his pint from his right hand to his left. "Captain John Watson." His handshake is firm, his palm cold and slightly damp from his glass.

 

"Captain Martin Crieff." Martin possibly holds on for too long. Just a small moment. Is it possible to flirt via handshake? How much is he allowed to flirt if he's not actually going to do anything?

 

"Can I buy you a drink?" John asks, casual as can be.

 

"You can buy me dinner," Martin's stomach says for him. Two pints on an empty belly: not the best decision. "I--I mean--"

 

"Dinner's fine." John's lips curve only slightly, but his eyes crinkle. "We'll need a table, though. Do you want to join your friends, or...?"

 

"I just sat next to Douglas for eleven consecutive hours for the third time this month," Martin replies. "I think we could use some time apart."

 

John laughs, a surprising giggle that tucks his chin down toward his chest. It puts their eyes nearly at the same level. "Somewhere else, then."

 

"Preferably." Martin wipes his palms on his trousers in a hasty, not quite surreptitious motion. John leads, and Martin follows. He absolutely does not look at Douglas, partially because his nerves are bad enough without the commentary-via-eye-contact, but mostly because he keeps bumping into chairs. Also, the people in the chairs. And invisible cracks in the floor. He's a bit stumbly all around, which is absurd. His alcohol tolerance isn't _that_ bad.

 

The only table without someone already at it is a tiny square one by the wall. The immobile booth bench remains against the wall, but someone has taken the chair that ought to be opposite.

 

"Good thing we're short," John says, sliding in behind the table. After the barest pause, Martin joins him. Their elbows jostle, Martin's left against John's right, but their legs don't touch until Martin shifts to better look at him. John sets down his pint. His tongue peeks out between his lips for a quick second.

 

Martin takes off his hat. Too warm for it. "Good, ah, how?"

 

"Leg room." John tilts his head slightly.

 

"Oh. Right. Yes."

 

Their shoulders bump. They brush, then settle against each other.

 

"What are you in the mood for?" John asks, and Martin could probably kiss him at this range. He could lean forward, just a little, and he could kiss a man, this man, on the lips, in a pub. Martin could do that. That is actually something Martin could do.

 

"Uh," says Martin.

 

"Need a menu?"

 

"Um. No." He clears his throat. "I--what are you having?"

 

John's expression doesn't alter one whit, but, as Martin walks right into the innuendo, he feels it on a physical level. Like walking into a doorway covered by a bead curtain: harmless, only the illusion of a barrier, each chain brushing over him before swinging, swaying.

 

"Haven't made up my mind yet," John says.

 

"Oh."

 

"Any suggestions?" John asks. How the hell does anyone do that deliberately? That thing with, with the eyes and the voice and, and everything.

 

"Jacket potato," Martin blurts. "For me, I mean. I don't, um, I don't know what you... like."

 

"I'm a bit of an omnivore," John says.

 

"So... not terribly picky."

 

The slightest shake of the head. "I know what I like."

 

"And, uh... what's that?"

 

John's smile turns too polite to be polite. Not rude, no, but... so appropriate that it might as well be inappropriate. If that makes sense. It might not. The inside of Martin's head feels a bit fuzzy.

 

"Still making up my mind," John says. He slides out from behind the table, and it is abruptly very cold without him. "Fancy another pint?"

 

"Best not."

 

"All right."

 

Martin waits at the table while John orders. He doesn't twiddle this thumbs, not exactly. He sits and he thinks and he still hasn't come up with a way to be interesting by the time John returns. John slides back in next to him and takes matters into his own hands.

 

"Eleven hours, you said."

 

"Sorry?"

 

"Where did you fly in from?" John asks.

 

"Oh, um. Costa Rica."

 

"Bit of a time difference."

 

"Six hours," Martin confirms. "I'm going to have quite the job falling asleep tonight. I mean--" Martin coughs.

 

"You mean it's still early," John says.

 

"Yes." He coughs again. "Yes, that. So, ah. You're, you're a doctor?"

 

"GP."

 

"Right. Any exciting stories?"

 

"Not really," John says, and he asks Martin about flying. He asks, and then he keeps asking, but he keeps _listening_. He asks and he listens, and Martin can see him learning. It's the exact opposite of the way the light usually goes out of his conversational partner's eyes. Here, it grows. It focuses. If Martin jumps over a bit of detail, John prompts it out of him.

 

"I'm not boring you, am I?" Martin asks once, just once, when their food arrives and John glances away from him.

 

John laughs. "No," he says. As simple as that. No.

 

"You're sure?"

 

Biting into his hamburger, John makes a muffed sound of agreement. Side by side, their dinners are undeniably unbalanced. Much too belatedly, Martin realises he could have ordered meat. It hadn't even occurred to him. When was the last time he had meat while not on an airplane? He's no idea.

 

"You were saying?" John asks. "About Dubai?"

 

"Right, yes, so." Martin talks about Dubai. He talks about Sydney and Paris and Tegucigalpa. He talks about everywhere he can think of, he talks to the neglect of his dinner, and John keeps looking at him like that. Like he's--

 

"Brilliant," John says, and the word sounds nothing like Arthur's default exclamation. It sounds special and lovely and wonderful, as if _Martin_ is special and lovely and wonderful.  


Ducking his head, Martin picks up his fork. He presses his knee against John's. John's elbow knocks against his, then sustains contact. John's hand remains on his own thigh.

 

"Just to clarify," Martin says. "Tonight, I'm. We're. Yes?"

 

John grins a little, just a little. It plays at the corners of his mouth. "Maybe in the morning too."

 

"Yes," Martin agrees instantly. "Then too. I mean--"

 

"Good," says John. The backs of his fingers curl against the side of Martin's thigh.

 

Martin turns toward him more fully. He eases incrementally closer. He's not good at this, at eye contact and angles and distance, not when his pulse rushes and timing becomes borderline impossible. He twists and he leans and he braces for impact.

 

Impact is... soft. There's a gentle heat and pliant give, and there are bits of rough around the edges. John is still and warm, but mostly he's still, and maybe this was a bad idea.

 

Martin pulls back, and John pushes forward. Martin's mouth falls open in a way he wishes he could call intentional. John shifts closer, and Martin draws him in with a hand on his arm. A crick builds in his neck and he doesn't care. He'd pull John into his lap, if he could.

 

"Cab?" John murmurs.

 

"I, yes, we, yes, cab. We should. I'd--yes."

 

John grins with his eyes. Maybe he grins with his mouth too, but they're too close for Martin to see John's mouth, he thinks they are, he glances down to be sure, and John kisses him again. Martin's thoughts trip and tumble over each other into a comfortable, yet messy, pile. They lie there on the floor, tangled, and make no attempt to get up.

 

"Brilliant," John says, his voice as low as the gutter and as soft as his fingertips at Martin's nape. With his other hand, he picks up his pint, clearly to drain it.

 

"No rush," Martin says. John looks askance at him, and Martin adds, "I mentioned, it's ridiculously early." More importantly, Martin has yet to finish his dinner. He digs in at a faster rate than before, hoping his hurry will look like haste instead of hunger.

 

His own plate empty save for a few chips, John pokes at his cutlery for a little while. Martin's neck, now untouched, prickles in a nonexistent chill. Martin nudges his knee against John's, and John sets his hand on top of Martin's thigh.

 

Martin stops chewing. He does not jump. He resumes chewing.

 

John lifts his hand. Martin nudges his knee. John returns his hand. It's a very nice hand. It's a particularly nice hand with fingertips against the inside of Martin's thigh.

 

"On second thought," Martin says, "I think it's a bit late."

 

"It's not that late." John's eyes grin at him and give the lie to his sincere mouth. His thumb rubs rough, deliberate circles into Martin's leg, almost a massage, if massages were absolutely filthy.

 

Martin leans in and leans up to whisper his warning into John's ear. "If you don't stop that, I'll have to drag you to the men's toilet."

 

"All right," John says, not stopping.

 

All of Martin's blood not already otherwise occupied rushes to his face. It fills his cheeks and overflows to heat his ears.

 

John's grin touches his lips. Martin, in turn, touches John's lips. With his own lips. He kisses him. With his mouth. The motion hides his face for only a few moments before the heat and the nerves and the tightness of his chest overwhelm. John removes his hand, Martin grabs at it, and John steadies him with a squeeze of the fingers beneath the table.

 

"The cab's still fine, too," John says.

 

Throat working, face burning, Martin nods.

 

"Might want to wait a minute," John adds. He shifts pointedly, and at least Martin wouldn't be the only one to have problems walking. Martin lets go of him and tries to keep his hands to himself. Success is extremely limited, but it's a mutual difficulty.

 

Martin clears his throat. "Maybe we should just--"

 

"Yeah."

 

They stand, straightening their coats, and John blinks down at him. It's nothing Martin isn't used to, what with the long torso and short legs; he tends to confuse people with his height that way.

 

John hands Martin his hat and leads the way out. He keeps looking back at Martin: step, step, step, look, step, step, step, look.

 

"I'm not _that_ slow." And he's not even bumped into any tables, this go around. Well, nearly, but only when he looked to find Douglas' former table occupied by someone else. Oh, God, please let Douglas have left before, well, before. If not, he'll be teased for the rest of his life. Which is hardly a change, but still.

 

John pauses once there's enough space for them to walk together. Martin steps up next to him, and John lowers his head to murmur, "Maybe I just like looking."

 

The only possible response to that is stammering, but John doesn't seem to mind. They exit, hunched against the rain, and John flags down a cab after two attempts. Already soaked, they clamber into the back. John gives his address so quickly that Martin misses it, something road. A tiny thing, but he memorises it anyway. Doctor Captain John Watson, something road. He ought to get the rest of the address. And a phone number. Definitely a phone number.

 

Contrary to what Martin wills him to do, John doesn't miraculously offer up this information. Instead, he sits looking more or less straight ahead. Rain-blurred lights cross his face. He glances at Martin, and Martin is apparently allowed to stare, judging by the tiny smile. It curves the lips, crinkles the eyes, and then vanishes.

 

Martin grabs his hand. Artless and clumsy, he hits his fingers against the back of John's hand and has to twist a little for a less awkward grip. _Don't change your mind. Don't you dare change your mind now_.

 

Clearing his throat, Martin asks, "Cold?"

 

"Mm. You'll have to do something about that." John speaks beneath the barrage of rain against the cab, beneath the faint, indecipherable song from the radio up front.

 

"Well, I for one am freezing," Martin manages to say without choking.

 

"Can't have that," John says.

 

"Definitely not."

 

"What do you think, coffee?"

 

"Tea, maybe," Martin says, just before the euphemism kicks him in the head. "I, um. Coffee's for mornings."

 

"Yeah, all right." John's thumb plays with Martin's palm, and Martin closes his eyes for the rest of the ride, simply to keep breathing. He jumps when John pulls his hand away and realises he'd mistaken their final stop for another red light. John pays the cabbie, Martin thanks him, and they brave the storm all the way across the pavement to an apartment building door.

 

They drip their way inside. John's compulsive backward glances resume as he works his keys on the inner door. Martin sets an unsteady hand at the small of John's back, and though John jumps slightly at the first touch, it works wonders.

 

Inside, down a hallway, up a flight of stairs, down another hall, and here, here, a door with a number on it. Apartment nine, a building, something road. John opens the door and they enter half on top of each other.

 

The foyer is small and dark with the door shut, then small and dim once John gets the lights. "Coat?" John asks, a gentleman in tone only, because gentlemen do not peel other gentlemen out of their soggy coats with a snog. Presumably. Maybe they do. Maybe gentlemen slide their hands underneath lapels and over the chest. Maybe they slide coats over the shoulders of other gentlemen using wrists and forearms alone, keeping hands on damp airline uniform jackets underneath. It's wholly possible gentlemen kiss deep and hard at the sound of a coat hitting the floor.

 

Martin returns his hands to John, unzipping this and pushing at that, but John won't lower his arms long enough to let his own coat fall. _We should get you out of those wet clothes_ , Martin should say, except that's too stupid and no one actually says things like that.

 

They twist around each other, snogging and shuffling and toeing off their squelching shoes, and Martin's hat falls off. Martin goes after the hat out of instinct, and they stagger against a wall. "Sorry, sorry," Martin says, hat in hand, but John giggles, and it's like discovering a bicycle bell on a Ferrari.

 

Martin loses it, laughing against John's shoulder, and John giggles all the harder. His warm hand cups the back of Martin's neck, and Martin shivers at the contrast between skin and rain.

 

"I can put these in the dryer, if you like," John offers.

 

"Yes, please." Except that would mean stripping in the front hall or the kitchenette or, or, oh God, he has to be _naked_. There are lights on and everything, and that should matter more, except John's grinning like it's a game and they're both winning. Martin clears his throat. "So, um, that first, or...?"

 

"Toss them in now, get them out after," John says.

 

Martin's stomach drops. "A-after?"

 

John frowns at him, the expression more in his eyebrows than his mouth. "After shagging." His hand drops from Martin's nape. "The shagging was implied. I mean, I've not exactly been subtle."

 

"No, no, I got that part," Martin hurriedly replies. He fiddles with the brim of his hat. "It's only, do you mean after-in-the-morning or after-and-out-the-door? Because, I mean, it's fine, I just--"

 

"I mean," John interrupts, "that I'm not getting up to do post-coital laundry."

 

"Oh. Right. Sorry. I, um."

 

"You're not getting up either," John adds. "Just so we're clear on that." His hands rise. They frame Martin's face, and all of Martin's body stops. All of him holds very, very still, lest this bubble of luck pop and dissolve into nothing.

 

John kisses him deliberately, achingly, holding him in place. His hands shift only gradually, his fingertips charting their slow progress into Martin's hair. The press of his lips travels from mouth to cheek to jaw, and Martin finds himself bundled up in a pair of warm, solid arms, with his head lolling to one side.

 

"Oh," Martin says, because Martin also has arms and hands, and he could be doing something with them if he could only find somewhere to put his hat down. John's head suffices wonderfully.

 

No sooner does Martin empty his hands than he fills them again. He pulls at the back of John's coat until John shucks it. The cardigan is next, but there's a button-down beneath. Not enough space between them for that, not at all. There's no room for space, not when there's a chest against his chest and a hard heat against his belly and a thigh against his crotch.

 

Shuffling closer, he treads on John's toes, and tries to shift back, but his balance won't stand for it. John pushes into the kiss; Martin stumbles backward, his arms tight around John's neck; and a _slam_ shakes through him at the slap of John's hand against the wall. John's other arm digs into the small of Martin's back, taking much of Martin's weight in this stumbling, unintended dip.

 

For much too long a moment, Martin stares up at him. At the startled grin, at the flushed cheeks, at his own hat atop John's head.

 

"You okay?" John asks.

 

Martin nods.

 

"We should probably lie down," John says.

 

"Yes," says Martin. "Here's fine," he adds, and John laughs.

 

"I know somewhere better," John says.

 

He pulls Martin more fully upright--"Do _not_ pick me up, do _not_ pick me up!"--with a smooth hold and nary a chuckle at Martin's red face and emotional whiplash.

 

"Wasn't going to," John says. He steers Martin into the kitchenette and tosses a few soggy items into the dryer. "Anything else I should know?"

 

"What? What, no, I'm clean."

 

"Me too," John says, "but not what I ask asking."

 

"Sorry?"

 

"No picking you up. Anything else?"

 

Though Martin's cold forearms prickle with the removal of his soaked shirt, Martin's face is well and truly on fire. He still has his vest on, but nudity looms closer. His hands fumble on John's buttons, because buttons are easier to look at than steady eyes in the night.

 

"I, um. I hate being tickled," Martin tells John's checked shirt. "And, I'm, well, I'm flying tomorrow. So. That's a lot of sitting. And, uh." _I've never_...

 

"Good," John says. "I was hoping I'd feel it in the morning."

 

Martin gapes at him.

 

Which apparently translates to John as a _no_. "Or we could do something else."

 

"No, no, I'm generally, I mean, in most of my... encounters, I've been the, er. Penetrating partner. I'm just not used to people... _saying_ that."

 

"Should I stop?" John asks, all tease, but a very precise sort of teasing. The kind that is shut up with snogging, apparently.

 

Martin shuts him up. Thoroughly, if not well. He jumps when John pulls at his belt buckle.

 

"Trousers in the dryer?"

 

"I, pockets," Martin stammers. He empties his pockets, dropping the contents onto the worktop, and then John says, "Can I?" and Martin says, "Yes," and John has done this before. This, specifically this, with the quick unbuckling and the pop of the button. Extremely this, with a steady hand sliding down between trousers and briefs, and _oh_ , oh God, before unzipping the fly. Martin rocks on the balls of his feet, straining upwards, arms locked around John's neck. His trousers fall. Startlingly loud, his belt buckle hits the kitchen floor. Cold air rushes up his legs.

 

"Step," John says. His hand slides to Martin's hip. The loss bewilders.

 

"Wh-what? Oh, right." Martin half-stumbles out of his trousers, but John keeps him upright. A second later, John nearly undoes this kindness: he bends down, crouching on one knee, picks up Martin's trousers, and lifts his face to look Martin in the eyes.

 

Martin's legs shake. If he leaned forward, just so, could he press against John's mouth? Would John let him? Does John want him to?

 

John stands. John chucks Martin's trousers in the dryer before shedding his own. John shucks his remaining top layers, and there is a great mark on his shoulder, sprawling out from a central circle. By the time Martin's sorted out what it is, the dryer is rumbling somewhere far away, and John's bedroom door has shut behind them.

 

"Do I need to be careful?" Martin asks, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. His eyes flick to the scar. 

 

"I'll be on top," John says, and he removes his pants without turning off the lights.

 

If Martin had a cock like that, he'd want to keep the lights on too. Abruptly, his mouth is no longer dry. He swallows. He gets harder, which is... new. At cock, he means. Not in general. He doesn't have problems in that area, at least not for a few years, and he's going to stop thinking about that now.

 

"You're, you're very," Martin stammers.

 

"Still want to fuck me?" John asks.

 

"Yes. Definitely. Yes."

 

John sits down on the bed, cock bouncing. Hat still on his head, he pulls open his bedside drawer. "Lube for me, condom for you." He hands over the packet. As Martin's face burns, John's eyes gleam. "You might want to take off your pants," John says.

 

He doesn't, not really, not with that light on. "Only if you ask nicely."

 

"All right," John says, so very naked and yet absolutely steady in eye contact. His cupped palm holds what looks to Martin like a very large amount of lube. He doesn't so much as blush as he begins to apply it. He kneels on the bed and he reaches back and his eyes shut. His cock twitches.

 

"Oh my God. Oh my God." The babble breaks out of Martin's mouth, floods out until Martin scrambles onto the bed, clumsy, so clumsy, and he catches John's face in both hands and kisses until he's dizzy, until long after he's dizzy, he began dizzy. "How are you _real?_ "

 

John laughs, as if at an unexpected joke, and Martin's hat almost falls off him. Martin straightens it without thinking, without hesitating, and the thinking and hesitating come after.

 

"Could you, um, would you--would you mind--" He indicates the hat.

 

"Yeah. Lie down. Pants off now, and that's as nice as I'm going to ask it."

 

Martin lands on his back and fights his way out of his pants.

 

"Careful," John says, because Martin has knees and feet, and John has a large target which mustn't be struck.

 

"Sorry! Sorry. You, yes, you're fine, sorry." Martin searches about with a flailing arm until he finds the dropped condom packet. "I'll just, I'll just--I'll, yes. I, oh, fuck."

 

"All right?" John asks.

 

"Rolled it on backwards," Martin admits.

 

"Drawer," John says, still working the fingers of his right hand inside himself.

 

The second attempt goes much better, and embarrassment keeps him from immediately coming as he smoothes the latex down. "Ready," Martin says, more than ready, and John swings a leg over him.

 

From this angle, John is torso and neck. He is muscle and a bit of soft and actual, literal battle scars. "Hold still for me."

 

Martin tries, but holding his prick is only a step away from wanking it. He holds as steady as he can, and a slick hand joins his. John lowers himself, and the pressure, the slow, swallowing pressure, it takes him in and in, tight muscle holding him fast.

 

"Don't move yet," John tells him, voice rough and strained. "Give me a mo'. And maybe more lube."

 

The words register as sounds, lovely sounds. So lovely. Arousal grips him like a solid force. It anchors him inside John, secures him there, and John's weight presses down as if to say, _yes, stay_. John's balls brush against his stomach. John's thighs twitch over Martin's hips. John wipes his right hand on his own hip before setting both hands on Martin's chest. He holds Martin against the bed, between his legs, and the flush of his cock matches that of his cheeks.

 

"Oh my God, you're beautiful." As he keeps from thrusting upward, Martin's toes curl and his legs tense nearly to the point of cramping. "You're... oh my God."

 

John begins to move.

 

He moves with his legs and his hips. He moves with his arms and his hands. He moves with his body and his arse, and the delicious straining agony of not coming. His slick fingers slide over Martin's chest and trickle down his ribcage. They glide back up his sternum. They touch his shoulders and press there, and John rides him.

 

Martin touches. John's hips, his sides. The curve of bum and thigh. His arms. His cock. The sound John makes. Martin looks, makes himself, makes his eyes open and look at the man on his lap, at the cock in his hand, at the bared neck high above him and his hat beyond.

 

Martin shoves up into him, destroying their rhythm, delaying the rush, and John says, " _Fuck._ "

 

"Sorry," Martin gasps. His hips buck up anyway, a desperate rutting.

 

" _Fuck_ ," John says again, and oh, that isn't a bad _fuck_. That is a good _fuck_ , from a good fucking. "Jesus." He sets his hands on Martin's pectorals. His palms rub against skin and nipples as he rocks, as he changes his angle and makes that noise. " _There_ we go."

 

It's the tiniest of changes for Martin, but for John, it is so much more. Martin sees it on his face, in the shaking of his arms. He sees it, for one glorious instant, deep in John's eyes, and that is so much, too much, entirely too much.

 

"Oh, God, sorry." The words pop out in lieu of warning. It's a miracle he's held out this long.

 

John's eyes, his hands, his arse, they all hold Martin as he winds ever tighter. John pushes down and his eyes grin and he says, " _Captain_."

 

Orgasm rumbles through him, orgasm with aftershocks and twitching and failed attempts at breathing. He lies with his hands on John's thighs, with his head thrown back, with his pulse in his ears and throat and groin.

 

John shifts, and Martin feels his fingers. Martin flops a belated hand in the attempt to help, but John pulls off him without trouble. He's still hard.

 

Martin gasps in air and lets it out in one hurried breath. "Comeonme."

 

"What?" John asks.

 

"I mean, if you like," Martin lets out in a slightly more intentional rush. "You don't have to, you could... not, that's, that's fine, I just thought, if you'd like to."

 

"Should I stop you from talking?" John asks, not without amusement.

 

" _Please_."

 

John stops him from talking. John crouches over him, forearm above Martin's head, and they kiss and they wank John until John's breath flutters against Martin's cheek in rapid little puffs through his nose. He comes on Martin, and it's not all that different from coming on himself as a teenager. The difference is in the heat, in the mouth on his, on the arm bracketing his head and the hair beneath his hand.

 

He pets John's hair, strokes the back of his neck, and little by little, John begins to lie down. He's still so solid, so tense in the way that orgasm is meant to dispel, but John keeps kissing him and Martin doesn't quite get around to asking about it.

 

After an impressive reach for the light switch, John settles in beside him. Martin eases the condom off--"Just drop it on the floor, I'll get it in the morning"--and here are tissues from the nightstand. There is a sliding sort of shuffle toward the dryer half of the bed. There is a body, bare, entirely against his. There's a mouth against the back of his neck, an arm around his waist, and a slightly sticky hand on his stomach.

 

He could put his hand on top of John's. He could. He might.

 

He doesn't move.

 

"That was spectacular," he whispers into the dark instead.

 

John kisses his nape with the barest pressure. He shifts slightly against Martin's back. His arm, folded under Martin's head, moves a little, and Martin accommodates him.

 

John breathes regularly and smoothly and well. Martin listens. His foot itches and he rides it out. He thinks of rolling over and doesn't. He estimates how many hours of sleep he can get before the flight, and he still can't let himself nod off.

 

He puts his hand over John's. He threads his fingers through, and he listens.

 

Behind him, John sleeps on, untroubled by Martin's grip.

 

Martin dares a harder squeeze. He closes his eyes and lets the night pass as it may.

 

 

 

He wakes up in a hotel room.

 

Not a _bad_ hotel room, just a small one, with its surfaces clear and clean and the walls devoid of photographs. Light sneaks in around the curtains, casting the room in a faint yellow gleam of morning.

 

Martin sits up. He pats the bed, the otherwise empty bed, and, on the far side, he finds the wet spot. He rubs at his eyes. His hat is wedged between a pillow and the headboard. He pulls it out and it's suffered no noticeable damage.

 

Holding his hat over his privates--but not touching, that would only be awkward for the rest of life--Martin creeps out of the bed. Deeply ingrained habit pulls him toward the wardrobe, but no, there hang John's clothes and not a hotel bathrobe. New apartment or a terrible decorator, then. He shuts the wardrobe and turns around. What are his options? The sheet? Bit dirty. Duvet? Possibly.

 

Or, just maybe, the small folded pile beside the door. His clothes, now dry and only somewhat wrinkled. Almost all of his clothes. He searches through the bed until he finds his pants.

 

After dressing in record time, he steadies himself, hat in one hand, doorknob in the other. He opens the door, and the scents of coffee and warm bread rush in. He pads out in his socks and gives a tentative, "Good morning?"

 

"Coffee's next to the sink," John answers. "Milk's in the fridge."

 

Martin joins him in the kitchenette, close enough for his cheeks to heat, far enough to see the whole of John, head to bare feet, and the t-shirt and boxers in the middle. He sways closer and continues the movement toward the coffee. He wraps both hands around the mug. It burns his palms, but it keeps him from touching John. Rumpled hair, bit of stubble, and Martin hadn't been able to get such a good look at John's arse last night.

 

"I'm always starved the morning after," John says, which helps to explain the sheer amount of scrambled eggs in the pan. The toast springs up in the toaster. "Put in another pair? Thanks."

 

"You've found my area of culinary expertise," Martin informs him with all the playful bravado he can muster. It then takes him five tries to get the toast to stay down in the toaster. John doesn't say anything, only watches from the corner of his eye, and the small of Martin's back freezes for the lack of his hand. He stays put, waiting, until John piles their plates high.

 

The table is tiny, and this time, they sit opposite. Martin sets his foot between John's, but John's feet are set too widely for him to feel it. Buttered toast and peppery eggs capture the interest of Martin's mouth and hands, but his eyes are left on John, around him, flicking away and back when they've been left too long.

 

Though he eats more slowly than Martin does, John keeps Martin's plate full. The eggs chill a bit around the edges, the toast loses its crispness to melting butter, and the coffee burns his tongue. Martin eats until his stomach feels fit to burst. It is _wonderful_.

 

He sighs back into his chair, holding his coffee over his full belly. His eyes want to close. His body wants to lie down and have a nice little food coma. His... his everything, really, wants John to come with him.

 

"Thank you," Martin says. "That was excellent."

 

John's lips quirk. "Better than airplane food?" He drinks his coffee.

 

"Oh, God, do I have horror stories for you."

 

John hums into the mug and swallows. "Maybe not while I'm eating, then."

 

"Some other time," Martin agrees. On a walk, maybe. An outing without expense, walking and making sure they don't want to eat. He could ask John about army food, and that would be a nice, long conversation. What else? Where else? There has to be something free-ish going on somewhere. Maybe, if everything goes well for long enough, maybe Carolyn would let John come along on a cargo flight. He could come fly the friendly skies, and when Martin was inevitably booked into a horrible hotel, Martin could turn to John and say, _It looks just like your bedroom_ , and John would push him onto the bed and say _Now it does._

 

John gets up for more coffee. He leans against the worktop, head bowed, face tired, eyes shut. He looks beautiful and worn, like a rock formation smoothed by wind. His hair is a mix of blond and grey, much in the same way that his eyes are brown right up until they're blue. He stands there, drinking coffee, and a sympathetic warmth fills Martin's chest.

 

"Last night," Martin says. He clears his throat. "We should do that again."

 

John makes a considering face, checks the clock on the microwave, and asks, "When's your flight?"

 

"No, I, ah, I meant on another date. _Day_ , I meant 'day.' Okay, yes, I meant 'date' too."

 

Without moving, John transitions from soft and warm to solid and unassailable.

 

"You... don't want to," Martin surmises.

 

"It's not a good idea."

 

"No, it's a lovely idea."

 

John stares at the wall, Martin stares at his profile, and John holds his mug in front of his chest, a defensive posture if Martin's ever seen one.

 

"Why is it not a good idea?" Martin asks. "Did I--is there something I--"

 

John shakes his head.

 

"I mean, I can understand you weren't looking for a, for a relationship," Martin says. "Last night. But it's a possibility now, so could you at least look at it? We're based in Fitton, it's not that far. Well, maybe a bit of a hike, but it's not like we'd be crossing Russia."

 

"It's just a bad idea," John says. There is a warning rail in his tone. Martin sees it. Martin barrels straight through and over the ledge.

 

"It's a bad idea I'd like to pursue, so could you at least tell me _why not_?" John's glare strikes him between the eyes, and Martin pulls back accordingly. He pulls back for a breath, only a breath, and then slingshots forward. "It's going to nag at me for weeks, so could you please stop me from spending the rest of the month wondering what I did wrong?"

 

"You look like my dead best friend," John snaps.

 

"I--come again?"

 

John sets down his mug with more force than coffee warrants. He holds the edge of the worktop in his hands, and he looks Martin straight in the eyes, unflinchingly in the eyes.

 

"You look," John says, "like my dead best friend."

 

It makes no more sense the second time. "Do I?"

 

"Yes." John nearly looks away that time.

 

"What, short and ginger?"

 

John makes a startled, muffled sound.

 

"What?" Martin asks.

 

John makes more of the sound. He turns to the side, covers his mouth, and his shoulders shake. He's giggling. Not crying, giggling, thank God.

 

"So..." Martin says. " _Not_ short and ginger?"

 

"No," John agrees, still giggling a little. He doesn't come back to the table, although he should.

 

"Then, seeing as those are my defining features, I don't see the problem."

 

"It's more of a facial feature thing," John says.

 

"Oh." Martin's stomach isn't used to being so full, hence the pain. "So that's why you noticed me last night."

 

"Made you stand out," John admits.

 

"I see." He takes a moment to breathe. He takes a second moment, and a third. "You and he...?"

 

John shakes his head.

 

Martin downs the rest of his coffee. He sets down the mug, like John, with more force than necessary. Must be something in the coffee. "Did we just have a threesome with a ghost?"

 

John laughs. It cracks him like ice, and it sounds like the break. A giddy little sigh, and he clears his throat. "No." He looks at Martin and he closes his eyes. "That was just us." He opens his eyes after the words, and there's no lie inside them, only fear. Fear or nerves or worry or anxiety, or any one of the number of forces winding Martin ever tighter. They've entered a country where Martin needs no maps.

 

"Did it help?" Martin asks, oddly calm.

 

"'Help'?" John echoes.

 

"I know grief is strange," Martin says, "but did it help?"

 

For much too long a time, John looks into the middle distance. At last, he says, "That wasn't the point. And, Jesus Christ, I wasn't thinking about him in bed with you."

 

"Then it helped," Martin says. He carries his empty plate and mug to the sink. He sets them in. John doesn't shy away or put extra distance between them.

 

"I told you it was a bad idea."

 

"I'm very keen on bad ideas." He doesn't reach out. He doesn't touch. He simply wants to. "I'm not keen on being late, though, so I should probably go."

 

John pushes away from the worktop to buss his own plate. "You should be able to flag down a cab just up the street." He attends to the washing up as if building a barricade.

 

"Actually," Martin says, "could you write down directions to the nearest Underground station?"

 

John blinks at him before procuring pen and paper. "Here."

 

"Ta." Martin jots down some very important information in the remaining empty space. John moves away before Martin's halfway through, but that doesn't stop Martin from tearing the paper in half and leaving his bit for John on the table. "Name and number. In case you change your mind. Or need to charter an aeroplane."

 

"If I'm ever stranded abroad," John says, a joke far too weak for such a strong man.

 

"Right. Well." He pulls on his coat. "Thanks for breakfast."

 

"Fly safe."

 

"Don't worry, I've memorised the operations manual." He tries for a bit of a grin as he pulls on his soaked shoes, but it's difficult for a number of reasons. "Anyway." He opens the door for himself. "Condolences."

 

He slips out and shuts the door before John can twist the knife any deeper. He shuts the door firmly, takes two steps down the hall, and stops. " _Dammit_." Indecision roots him to the spot. Can't go forward, can't go back.

 

Behind him, the door opens. "You forgot your hat."

 

"Sorry." Martin turns back to him, and though John is holding the hat, he isn't holding it out.

 

John closes his eyes and his lips move slightly. Then, as if pulling the words out from beneath a boulder, he says, "It was good."

 

"Because you're amazing," Martin says, stepping closer.

 

Maybe confused, maybe surprised, but generally unreadable, John looks at him. "No, I'm being an arse."

 

"I love your arse," Martin assures him. The hallway floor, quite unfairly, does not swallow him up.

 

John chuckles the way people do at tension-diffusing jokes. Is that worse or better? No idea.

 

"I do love my hat more, though," Martin says. His stomach tenses as though he's come close to telling a lie.

 

"Here you are." John holds out the hat.

 

Martin takes the hat. He fumbles, his eyes on John. On his shoulders and stubble and the strain in his face. On everything. "Can I kiss you goodbye?"

 

John doesn't blink. He doesn't shake his head.

 

"Please," Martin adds.

 

John takes a quick look up and down the hall. Very quietly, John says, "Yeah, all right," but he kisses Martin first. It's not a peck goodbye, and it's not a brush-off. It's not chaste, regardless of their closed mouths. It's hard and bewildered and needful, and Martin could whisper, _Yes, yes, I'm here too._

He cups John's cheek instead. He feels the roughness, and he pulls back before he can be left wanting. "Bye," he says. He puts his hat on.

 

"Bye," John says.

 

Martin turns and he walks, and he doesn't look back until he hears a door close, and then the hall is just that, an empty hall.

 

 

 

"Everything all right, Skip?"

 

"Fine, Arthur."

 

"It's just, you look like someone's nicked the cheese tray."

 

"I'm _fine_ , Arthur."

 

"Yeah, okay. But if someone _had_ nicked the cheese tray--"

 

Douglas clears his throat. "I have done no such thing, and I am positively hurt you'd suggest it. Arthur, off the flight deck."

 

"But I didn't--"

 

"Off. Now."

 

"Okay, okay! Feel better, Skip!"

 

"I told you, I'm fine!" Martin calls after him, but if his words get through the flight deck door, they definitely don't make it through Arthur's skull.

 

"Ah, peace and quiet." Douglas rolls his shoulders before slouching--no, lounging--in his seat. "Frankly, I don't have the energy for Arthur today."

 

"Agreed."

 

"I don't know about you, but I barely got a wink last night," Douglas continues. "I can't really complain about the reason, but, what the hell, I'll complain anyway. I'm knackered." This from the man taxiing the plane.

 

"Are you fit to fly?"

 

"For a little hop-skip-and-not-even-a-jump like this? Not a problem."

 

"If you're sure."

 

"I always am."

 

Martin rolls his eyes. "Yes, I suppose you are."

 

"How about you? Survived the sofa, I see."

 

Responding means unclenching his jaw. It takes some time. "I don't think I'm going to be trying that again."

 

"Bit of a berk in the morning, was he?"

 

"No," Martin says much too quickly. "No! No. _No_." He stares out the window where absolutely no one will try to make eye contact with him. "He made me breakfast."

 

"A surprisingly good sport about it, then. Good pick, Martin."

 

"He picked me," Martin corrects. "Sort of."

 

"Fair enough." A moment of almost silence passes. "I know it's not everyone's cup of tea, but then, you are talking to someone who _loves_ his coffee. Sometimes, you just need a bit of caffeine, though, however it comes."

 

Douglas' expression is bland. Too bland. It's even, oh God, _nonjudgmental._

"Could do with some coffee right now," Martin says, "except that would entail Arthur."

 

"Mm, the Catch-22 of exhaustion."

 

"How do you mean?"

 

"If you have enough energy to receive the coffee, you clearly don't need the coffee."

 

Martin laughs. "There's definitely that."

 

The lifted mood lasts them through takeoff, but it falls away before cruising altitude.

 

"You know what?" Douglas says abruptly. "We're going to give that another go. Do it properly."

 

"What? What, _no_!"

 

"Low stakes, Martin. Not for a place to stay, just, you know, a night out with a brilliant wingman."

 

"I don't want to."

 

"All right. But the offer stands. Give the bad taste in your mouth some time to fade, and who knows?"

 

"'Bad taste'," Martin echoes, voice tight. "Tea leaves a 'bad taste'?"

 

Douglas does his frown with the eyebrows, the one that admits to confusion but thoroughly blames the cause of it on his conversational partner. "What? No, using someone as a free hotel service does. At least, it can. So we can go out, try again, and find you some coffee. How does that sound?"

 

"Still no."

 

"Or," Douglas adds, "though it's not my particular skill set-- _yet_ , I'm sure it can't be that different--we could fix you up with some tea instead."

 

"I don't _want_ tea!" Martin snaps. "I want--ugh!" He bites down on the words, the stupid, stupid words.

 

For a long moment, Douglas says nothing. He ends the moment with a soft, quiet voice. "What do you want, Martin?"

 

" _That_ teapot. Just that one! But apparently I can't have that one, even though he came on to me in the first place. Or he was staring at me in the first place and I went up to him, but it counts. And he let me prattle on about aviation for _ages_ , and no one does that, but he stayed and he listened and he _laughed at my jokes once I explained them_. Who does that? No one does that! I have been looking for people who do that, looking my _entire life_ , Douglas, and here he is but there he goes!

 

"And I mean, just a chance, is a chance too much to give? Because I didn't do anything wrong. I don't know how someone goes from drying your clothes and feeding you up to, 'no, this was a one-off thing.' That's not mixed signals, that is every signal. That is a signal _buffet_ , and let me tell you, I am spoiled for choice. Or maybe I just got lost somewhere between 'fuck me' and 'oh, good morning, forgot to mention, but you look like my dead best friend'!

 

"That should be a deal-breaker, shouldn't it? Shouldn't it? I mean--"

 

"Martin," Douglas interrupts with the steady sturdiness of a hardwood floor. "Slow down. Go back. Also: breathe."

 

"I am breathing!"

 

"Good. Breathe more."

 

Martin breathes more. They're shaking breaths, but they are in no way sobs. He's furious, not crying.

 

"So," Douglas says, "what was that about the best friend?"

 

Martin folds his arms and slinks down very unprofessionally in his seat. The chair pushes the back of his hat up, and the brim comes down over Martin's eyes, which is convenient.

 

"Tell me one fact at a time, Martin. Fact one is...?"

 

"...He has a dead best friend."

 

"Fact two."

 

"He says I look like him."

 

"Fact three?"

 

Martin groans and squirms, but none of it helps him escape the flight deck.

 

"Did he, for instance, tell you _how_ you look like him?" Douglas asks. "Does he simply have a type?"

 

"The friend wasn't short or ginger," Martin says. "At all."

 

"So it's probably something about the face."

 

"Probably."

 

"Right, so you remind him, visually and _partially,_ of the dead best friend," Douglas reasons. "Any chance you asked about them being together?"

 

"They weren't. At least, he said they weren't."

 

"All right, potentially good there. Last question."

 

Martin refuses to come up from his sulk for it. "What?"

 

"When you were together, was he there with _you_?"

 

Memories of last night both soothe and burn, and he touches them with tentative hands. Ultimately, he says, "I thought so."

 

"Oh good!" Douglas says brightly. "There you are, then."

 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

 

"Well, can you imagine it? Any time you introduce your new boyfriend, all of your friends think you're holding onto a ghost? Your family gets concerned, your friends want you to seek help, and new boyfriend gets shoved out of the way. Or worse, new boyfriend is constantly compared to the dead friend."

 

"Right, you're really making me feel better, thanks."

 

"What I'm saying is, from what you've told me, all signs point to him fancying you. _You_ , Martin. No one on Earth could sit through one of your aviation jokes otherwise, especially not a layman. _But_ , an actual relationship, introducing you to his loved ones, constantly being questioned, making you put up with that, well. It's a bad idea."

 

"That's what he said," Martin mutters.

 

"What, he explained it to you?"

 

"No, he just said it was a bad idea."

 

"Right. And now I've explained why it's a bad idea--"

 

"You are _really_ not helping."

 

"--and it has _absolutely nothing_ to do with you making some staggeringly awkward mistake," Douglas continues over him. "The same thing that initially got his interest just so happens to make a relationship unfeasible. It's unfortunate, but it's hardly something wrong with _you_."

 

Slowly, Martin sits up a little taller. "Do you... Do you really think that?"

 

"I do," Douglas says.

 

"...Okay." He blinks a bit before adjusting his hat. "Thank you."

 

Douglas shrugs. "The way I see it, you are now torn between two excellent outcomes."

 

"You're not serious."

 

"Oh, no, I am! The first, provided you move past this teapot, is that you are in a spot of remarkable luck. There are so many male pilots: not all of them can be straight. Your odds of meeting people just went way up, Martin."

 

"I told you, I don't want _men_ , I want _that_ one."

 

"Yes, yes, so that's option two," Douglas quickly breaks in. "Option two is even _better_."

 

"Sorry, how is dying alone better?"

 

Douglas waves a chiding finger. "Ah ah ah. Think about it. If you never want another man ever again, do you realise what that means?"

 

"I still think that means I'm bisexual now."

 

"Sure, if you like, but _more importantly_ , it means that you have officially had sex so good, so bloody amazing, it ruined you for an entire gender."

 

Martin chokes on air. Air converting to uncontrollable giggles tends to have that effect.

 

"As you might infer, even _I_ haven't had sex that good," Douglas says, "and I'm _me_."

 

" _Douglas_."

 

"Of course, I can't speak for the women I've had sex with," he continues on conversationally, absolutely ignoring Martin's strangled laughter. "I do know my second girlfriend married a woman. Tentatively pleased there. I mean, the other options are that I turned her off or, even more unlikely, that it has nothing to do with me. But what are the odds of that?"

 

Martin laughs until it hurts, and then he keeps on laughing.

 

"Anyway," Douglas says, "well done, Casanova. Two free meals, a night's stay, a good shag, and two lovely directions for your life to go. Not bad for one night."

 

"Maybe... Maybe there's a third option?"

 

"Oh?"

 

"I did leave my phone number."

 

"Oh, _Martin_."

 

"I can hope!"

 

"Just don't let it tear you up," Douglas warns. "If he doesn't want you, he doesn't deserve you. It's as simple as that."

 

"And if, if it does turn out that... If he did want me?"

 

"Probably still wouldn't deserve you, in all honesty," Douglas says.

 

"...You really think that? You really don't have to..."

 

"I don't _have_ to say it, no, but this is a good trial round before I have this talk with my daughter."

 

Martin laughs. "Oh, is that why you sound like a dad?"

 

"I _am_ a dad, thank you. Also, I have more dad speeches to test out. I wouldn't mind getting some practice in."

 

"Right," Martin says. "Right, well. I suppose I could help you with those."

 

"Very kind of you," Douglas says. "Now, ready to brave Arthur? I don't know about you, but I'm parched."

 

"Ah, yes. Me, uh, me too."

 

"Excellent." Douglas rings the service bell, and he somehow imbues the motion with swagger. "Tea, then home."

 

Martin nods his agreement, he takes his tea, and they fly on.


End file.
